


Ageless Devotion

by JJJunky



Category: Twelve O'Clock High (1964)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:59:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallagher must undertake what looks to be a suicide mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ageless Devotion

Ageless Devotion  
By JJJunky

 

Act I

Slipping out of his raincoat, Colonel Joseph Gallagher hung it across the back of an empty chair, hoping it would be slightly drier and thus slightly warmer by the end of his meeting. Squaring his shoulders, he tugged gently on the end of his uniform jacket before knocking hard on the thick wooden door of General Britt's new office. The barely discernable command for him to enter was more anticipated than heard.

"What brings you out on a night like this, Joe?" asked General Britt. "I'm surprised you were even able to find the place. From what I hear you can't see two feet in front of your face."

Ensconced behind his comfortable desk at Pinetree, it was obvious the general had no intention of personally investigating the truth of his statement. Gallagher had no intention of informing his superior that the normally fifteen minute drive from Archbury to H.Q. had taken over an hour. "I wanted to talk to you, General, about your decision to cancel tomorrow's mission."

"There's nothing to discuss, Colonel. All missions are scrubbed. Every prediction has this soup lasting at least two more days."

It wasn't only the tone of the voice that made Gallagher aware that Britt would only tolerate a minimal debate over his decision, it was his phrasing as well. The general rarely called him by his rank rather than his given name. His normal exuberance tempered with caution, Gallagher persisted, "Sir, we have a chance to shorten, if not actually end this war. Hitler will be visiting that villa outside Cologne tomorrow and tomorrow only. We have to take a chance. It's almost impossible to know where he's going to be at any given time. That's why the underground risked their lives to get us the information."

"I know that as well as you, Joe." Britt pushed his chair back in frustration. "But that fog out there doesn't give us any choice. You can't even see your own wingtip, much less someone else's. You'd have planes crashing into each other all over the sky."

"Not if there's only one plane in that sky."

The silence that followed this suggestion made Gallagher squirm. It wasn't often that General Britt was at a loss or words, but it appeared to one of those times.

"I think that fog has seeped into your brain," Britt finally stuttered. "Are you seriously suggesting I send a lone bomber all the way to Germany without group or fighter support?"

Hoping that his enthusiasm would be contagious Gallagher nodded. "The Germans would never be expecting it."

"You got that right."

"The forecast calls for fog from Ireland to the Ardennes. They'd never expect us to fly in that, and even if their radar picked us up, they'd probably think it was a distortion caused by the weather. We could bomb that villa before they even knew we were up there."

"That gets you there if you have a good navigator. But what about getting back?" pressed Britt.

"Reaching the target has always been the most important consideration."

Rising from his chair, Britt leaned heavily on his desk as he walked slowly around it to face his subordinate. "There are ten men who might not agree with you."

"Nine, General, and those nine will be strictly volunteers."

"Hell, Joe, those men of yours would fly through flak at 300 feet if you asked them to and you know it. Do you really think it's fair to ask them to risk their lives on something this uncertain?"

"Yes, sir, I do. If they knew the details, there isn't a one who would pass up a chance to get Hitler and possibly end this war. We know that he's in disfavor with many of his own generals. Now is the time to strike."

Easing himself back into his chair Britt sighed. "You're right. Suicide or not, we have to try."

"Then the mission's a go, sir?"

"Yes," agreed Britt, obviously realizing that he had probably just sentenced the man before him to death. "I'll consult General Prichard immediately. You should have our final decision by the time you reach Archbury."

Unable to keep a smile from his face, Gallagher saluted. "Thank you, sir."

"Joe," halting the younger man's eager departure, Britt asked, "will you let Harvey volunteer?"

The smile disappeared as Gallagher straightened his shoulders. "Major Stovall is temporarily grounded on a medical disability."

"On whose orders?" questioned Britt in surprise.

"Dr. Kaiser feels that the major is past due for a complete physical."

"When did he decide that?"

"This afternoon, sir."

"Harvey's not going to like this, you know."

"But he will obey."

"He won't like it," Britt unnecessarily repeated.

"That's not an option in the Air Force, sir."

Suddenly realizing he had a headache, Britt gently massaged his temples. "I'm glad you're the one who has to tell him and not me."

"Actually," Gallagher shifted uncomfortably, "Dr. Kaiser is telling him right now."

"Chicken."

Gallagher nodded his head in embarrassment. "Yes, sir."

As Gallagher opened the door to leave Britt called, "Good luck, Joe."

"Thank you, sir," accepted Gallagher.

Alone, Britt looked helplessly at the closed door. He liked Colonel Joe Gallagher. He had known the young man slightly before he'd taken command of the wing that included the 918th Bomb Group. But the boy he had met in the past only slightly resembled the man he knew now. The boy had been self-centered and weak; the man was shrewd and decisive.

When Savage had been shot down and Gallagher chosen to replace him opposition had been strong. Some had felt that he was too young, while others believed that he lacked command capabilities. Gallagher could do nothing about the former reservation, but he had quickly put the minds of the latter to rest. The months he'd spent under Savage's command were obvious. Lacking the general's rank and experience, he'd made the 918th his group by example. Every man worked harder trying to meet their colonel's standards. A competition that made not only the group but also its commander the best in the 8th Air Force.

Britt knew he should be worried about the 918th. What might happen if -- when -- they lost a second commander. But this was an eventuality he couldn't bear to contemplate. It was painfully clear that the smile that often made his days more bearable would soon be gone, and there was nothing he could do about it. The lad had a good, if suicidal, plan.

****

Gallagher paused with his hand on the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, he tried to unwind from the long drive back to Archbury. Behind the door he knew he would face an equally difficult task. He couldn't afford to allow the stress of the journey to slow his mental processes in any way. Even at his worst, Harvey Stovall could be a formidable opponent. Finally entering the outer office, he didn't allow the men inside time to adjust to his presence. "Harvey, Sandy, I want every pilot and crew member on the base in the briefing room in fifteen minutes."

"Joe, I need to talk to you," said Harvey, obviously undaunted by his commanding officer's strident order.

"Later, Harvey, after the briefing."

"Briefing for what? We're fogged in."

"I don't have time to explain now, Major, you'll just have to wait."

Escaping into his office, Gallagher closed the door firmly behind him. With any luck, he could continue to evade his friend until after the crew was chosen.

As he crossed slowly to sit behind his desk, he sadly wondered how he was going to decide which nine men would die with him. He wasn't God and never wanted to be. Yet, here he was with the power of life and death. As a commander, he was constantly sending men into battle to die. But always before there'd been a chance, however small, of survival. This time there was very little chance. He would have to decide who would die. And, knowing they would, could he be objective or would he chose replacements he barely knew over old friends? How much easier it would be for him if only one man in each position volunteered?

Hoping his despair wasn't reflected in his eyes, Gallagher glanced up sharply when Komansky poked his head through the door.

"Everyone's in the briefing room, sir. You did say fifteen minutes."

A quick glance at the clock showed Gallagher that he was already an uncharacteristic five minutes late. "Thank you, Sergeant."

With a reluctance he could readily define, Gallagher slowly rose from behind his desk. His steps were deceptively sure and confident as he led the way to the briefing room.

Joining Harvey on the dais, he focused his eyes on a point just above the heads of the men seated before him. He knew that if he looked at their faces, he might back out of the mission. As important as it could be to the outcome of the war, he realized that to him personally these men were more important.

"Tomorrow morning at 0800 precisely, one ship and one ship only will take off on a mission I can disclose only to the crew."

A young pilot who'd joined the 918th the week before slowly stood up. "It's suicide to fly in this weather, Colonel."

"That's why only one ship is going, Lieutenant. It is also why the crew will be made up strictly of volunteers. I will be the pilot, but I'll need a co-pilot, bombardier, navigator, and gunners. We'll be battling not only the Germans but the weather, and the odds are not in our favor."

Still unable to look directly into faces of his men, Gallagher finished, "I'll be in my office if anyone wants to see me. Dismissed, gentlemen."

Gallagher didn't hesitate, walking briskly from the room. There was more he wanted to say, like how proud he'd been to lead them, but now wasn't the time. There was never time in this war to do the things you wanted to do -- only the things you had to do.

 

Act II

As he carefully measured out the route they must fly to pass directly over the villa while avoiding the heaviest concentration of flak and fighters, Gallagher nervously waited for a knock at the door. It had been almost an hour, yet no one had volunteered. What would he do if no one did? As much as he'd like to, he couldn't fly the mission alone.

"Colonel?"

Gallagher knew Harvey must have knocked before he entered but he had been so engrossed in his thoughts he hadn't heard the summons. Straightening, he gently massaged his stiff shoulders. "What is it, Major?"

"I have the crew list for you, sir," Stovall explained.

Confused, Gallagher hesitantly reached for the paper Harvey was holding out to him. "What?"

With his hands now empty, Harvey slid them behind his back and stood at attention. "Rather than fill your office, the men decided among themselves who would be chosen for the positions, since every man on the base volunteered, including the pilots."

"Didn't I make it clear that this was a suicide mission?"

"Yes, sir, you did."

"Then why?"

Unbending slightly Stovall noted, "Joe, when you lead a mission, most of the men feel it's important and that they'll come home."

"They could be in for a big disappointment this time."

"Maybe."

"Harvey, I'm not indestructible. I'm a man just like they are."

"You're a man," agreed Stovall, "but you're not like the rest of us."

"How can you of all people say that?" Gallagher protested, rising to his feet. "You saw what I was like when I first came here. I was a goof-off trying to get by on my father's rank."

"That just made you human, someone they could relate to."

"But not indestructible."

"If it builds morale, why not let them have their little fantasies?"

Just once, Gallagher wished someone would consider his morale. Didn't they realize how much more pressure it put on him trying to live up to their expectations? And it wasn't just the men, General Britt and General Prichard seemed to believe in the same fantasy.

Though tempted to continue the argument, Gallagher sadly shook his head and glanced at the crew list in his hand. There at the top was the one name he had thought he had made certain he wouldn't see. Picking up a pencil, he drew a line through the name. "I'll need someone else as co-pilot."

"What's wrong with the one you've got?" asked Stovall.

"You're grounded on a medical disability."

"Not any longer," Harvey stated. "I had a physical just before your arrival, and passed with flying colors."

Surprised by the despair he felt, Gallagher dropped back into his chair and gently massaged his temples. There was no anger in his voice, merely desperation. "Would you scratch yourself if I asked you to?"

"If you can give me a good reason why I should," Stovall gently replied.

"Nobody but me seems to realize we probably won't make it back," cried Gallagher. "Isn't that reason enough?"

"Then why don't you scratch yourself?"

"Because it was my idea, I--"

"Because," Stovall contradicted, "you feel it's your duty. This isn't a one-man war, Joe. You don't have to try to win it all by yourself."

"I'm not," protested Gallagher.

"Like hell. You take every dangerous mission on the board, and if one isn't offered, you schedule it yourself. There's been many a time I've wished there was a little more Captain Gallagher in those silver eagles of yours."

"What's that got to do with you flying this mission?"

"Half the men in your command are older than you, yet you father us. If you could fly every mission alone you would." His voice softening Harvey said, "Joe, just once I'd like to be there to take care of you."

"It's my job to look after my men. If I don't do it, who will?" Running his finger along the line he had just drawn leading from Archbury to Cologne, Gallagher continued, "Harvey we're going to be flying a long way…alone. The first part will be at extremely high altitudes and the remainder at treetop level."

Stovall's eyes narrowed as he regarded his commanding officer. "Do you think I'm too old to do the job?"

"It'll be so cold our masks will freeze to our faces and our fingers and toes will get frostbitten -- and that's the easy part. After we descend, we'll be so low they could shoot us down with ground fire."

"Answer my question, Colonel," pressed Stovall. "Is it my age or my abilities you question?"

Shocked that his friend had so badly misinterpreted his intentions, Gallagher confessed, "There's a very simple explanation, Harvey: I don't want you killed."

"Joe," the anger and resentment were gone from his voice as Stovall sat on a chair in front of the desk, "I know how you feel. I have the same feelings every time you go up there. Why do you think I have to go? I can't just sit here and wait -- not this time."

Finally understanding his friend's motivation, Gallagher reluctantly bowed to the inevitable. "Okay, Harvey, you're my co-pilot." Returning his attention to the remainder of the names on the list, he asked, "How many men did Sandy have to bully to get picked as flight engineer?"

"None," assured Stovall. Noting the skepticism on his commanding officer's face, he admitted, "Everybody put their name in a hat for each position--"

"Except," Joe interrupted, "for the co-pilot and the flight engineer."

"Rank does have its privileges."

"If that were true, you wouldn't be flying tomorrow," growled Gallagher the anger in his voice not entirely simulated.

****

Gallagher gently closed the door behind him and quietly rejoiced in the feeling of peace. Even if there wasn't a blackout, no light could have penetrated the dense fog surrounding him. Recently, the only sense of true freedom he could enjoy was late at night or early in the morning. At these times, the normally bustling facilities were almost deserted. There were no noisy engines to drown out the birds singing in the trees or the wind whistling through the leaves. You could almost forget there was a war going on.

An outstretched hand and an intimate knowledge of the base layout allowed him to make his usual rounds in spite of the weather conditions. First, he stopped outside the Officers' Club and listened to the happy chatter that barely penetrated the thick metal. Here he could always gauge the morale of the men in his command. It was obvious Reynolds, his navigator, and Logan, the bombardier, were receiving a rousing send-off. Checking his watch, he decided to give the party another half-hour before intervening -- if it became necessary. Both men were extremely efficient and conscientious. The return visit would probably be in vain.

Sliding his hand along the side of the Quonset hut he walked slowly down to the maintenance area. Pulling back the blackout curtain, he slipped into the brightly lit hanger. For once, no personnel swarmed across the vast expanse of the Piccadilly Lily. Four days of bad weather had brought the bulk of necessary repairs up to date.

"Checkin' up on me, Colonel?"

Gallagher shook his head and smiled. "Don't you ever sleep, Chief?"

"Can't let anythin' happen to my boys," Nolan defended. "Got plenty of time to sleep after the war."

Unlike other mechanics he had known who treated the planes like living entities, Gallagher knew that Nolan's "boys" were the ten men whose lives depended upon his knowledge and skill. "All predictions have the fog lasting at least two more days. It may be a long war, why don't you try to get some shut-eye while you can."

"Yes sir," Nolan reluctantly agreed, "after I give the Lily another once over."

Hiding a smile behind an up-raised arm, Gallagher snappily saluted. "Carry on, Chief."

Back outside, Gallagher walked slowly by the officers' quarters, the noise inside telling him that at least some of the men had left the celebration early. In comparison, the relative quiet of the enlisted quarters told him where his next stop should be.

"Dammit, Sandy, leave me alone!"

The quiet order came from his left. Curiosity rather than duty made him turn in that direction.

Komansky's voice was low almost indecipherable, "I'm tellin' ya, Pete, all ya gotta do is go talk to the colonel. You know he won't have any trouble replacin' ya."

"And what do I tell 'im?"

"You might try the truth," suggested Gallagher, feeling rather than seeing both men jump at his sudden appearance. "It's a story I'd rather hear where I can see your faces."

Taking for granted that the men understood his meaning, Gallagher lead the way back to the ops building. Walking through the now deserted outer office and into his own, he crossed to the coat rack and hung up his damp raincoat before turning to address the two men. "From what little I overheard outside, it's clearly apparent that you regret volunteering for this mission, Corporal Peterson."

"Yes, sir, I mean no, sir," stammered the frightened young gunner.

Displaying an unusual amount of patience Gallagher pointed out, "I'm glad you're more precise with your shooting than you are with your responses, Corporal."

Komansky protectively stepped forward. "You see sir--"

"It's all right, Sandy," interrupted Gallagher. "I'm sure the Corporal will be able to explain if we give him time."

Reluctantly Peterson admitted, "It's just that I know how important this mission must be and I don't want to jinx it, sir."

"All the missions are important, Peterson. I don't send men to face fighters and flak for the hell of it." 

Peterson's young face flushed a bright red as he attempted to stammer out an apology. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Also," continued Gallagher taking no apparent notice of the young man's embarrassment, "you should know that I don't believe there's any such thing as a jinx." 

"That's what I've been tryin' to tell 'im, sir," said Komansky disgustedly.

"I also don't believe," Gallagher commented, his eyes flashing at his outspoken sergeant, "that a person's beliefs should be laughed at. Now, how exactly do you think you'll jinx this mission, Corporal?"

The flush that had subsided somewhat burned brightly once again. His eyes focused on a point above his colonel's head, Peterson explained, "You see, sir, this will be my thirteenth mission."

Gallagher patiently waited for Peterson to expound on his statement, when he suddenly realized that the young man had nothing left to say. Remembering his earlier comment to Komansky, he quickly swung his chair around so the two men couldn't see his face. The one thing the corporal didn't need at the moment was his commanding officer laughing at him.

When he was certain he had his emotions under control, he swung back to face the two men. From the look on Komansky's face he could tell that his actions had not been misinterpreted. Ignoring the knowing look on the sergeant's face, he addressed the nervous young gunner, "Peterson, the number of missions you've flown has no bearing on its danger level."

Komansky nodded. "I've been tryin' to tell him it's just two numbers put together."

"That ain't what my ma says," contradicted Peterson.

"I don't know what your mother taught you," Gallagher thoughtfully noted, "but I do know that we're fighting a war. Men will die whether it's the thirteenth hour, the thirteenth day, or the thirteenth mission. You can't stop it and you can't change it. A man's fate depends more on his skills and just plain luck than it does on a number. As dangerous as this mission is, if everyone does his job we at least have a chance of making it home."

Indecision warred with hope on the expressive face. "If you're willin' to take the chance, Colonel, so am I."

"We take a chance every time we go up there Corporal whether it's the first mission, the thirteenth, or the twenty-fifth."

"Then I can go?"

"If that's what you really want," Gallagher emphasized. His eyes boring into Komansky's, he continued, "However, if you want me to scratch you, I will do so and no one will ever know why."

Peterson shook his head. "I guess it really don't make no difference. No matter when I go it'll still be my thirteenth; better it be with you, sir, than somebody else."

Unaccountably exasperated by this blind faith in his abilities, Gallagher snapped, "In that case I suggest you both return to your quarters and get some sleep. Briefing at 0600. Dismissed, gentlemen."

Gallagher could see that Komansky had noticed his mood swing but was reluctant to question him. It was an attitude that only served to dampen his spirits further. If he couldn't live up to his own expectations, how could he hope to live up to others?

 

Act III

Motioning to Stovall to take the column, Gallagher flexed his frozen fingers and attempted to stretch muscles stiffened by three hours of flying in a cramped cockpit. Putting his hands up against his face, he tried to melt some of the ice that had formed around his breathing mask. Even with its assistance, the thin air seemed to sap his strength. Feeling lethargic, he wondered how the rest of the crew was coping. He at least had his instruments to keep him alert; all they could do was search the sky for fighters that would never materialize at this altitude. With a voice made raspy by the dry, thin air, he ordered, "Gunners, clear your throats."

As he listened to the short bursts of gunfire and each stations acknowledgement, he felt a confidence he hadn't felt since he'd first suggested the mission in General Britt's office. The importance of the attack had never been in doubt, only its advisability. He was risking the lives of nine men on a contingency. Was the information the underground provided accurate? Would Hitler be there? Would the weather be clear enough to bomb?

"Skipper, it's time to start our descent," called Reynolds. "Come about to zero six niner."

"Roger," Gallagher acknowledged, nodding to Harvey to begin the descent.

As he reclaimed the column, fog surged up toward him, making his fingers convulsively tighten on the wheel as additional adrenalin rushed through his body. In less than five minutes they would enter a sightless world. If they encountered a mountain or another plane they would have only seconds to respond. In less than half an hour they would be at the I.P. Even if they initially surprised the enemy, by this point they will be detected. Flak and whatever fighters they could assemble would be scrambled. Alone they were heavily outnumbered, no matter how many fighters intercepted them.

A gradual lightening ahead was the first sign that they were leaving their concealment behind. "On your toes, gunners, we're about to lose our cloud cover," called Gallagher. "Reynolds, how many minutes to the I.P.?"

"Twelve," Reynolds nervously amended, "if we're on course."

"If we're not, you're fired," joked Stovall.

Everyone, including Reynolds, knew that was not the worst that could happen to them. The course Gallagher had initially laid out called for an absolute minimum amount of time over the target. Their very survival depended on reentering the fog as quickly as possible. As his eyes searched the skies for fighters, Gallagher's ears waited for confirmation of their position.

Almost yelling in his exuberance, Reynolds declared, "We're right on the nose, Skipper. Let's lay a pineapple right in that bastard's lap."

"That's up to Logan. We're only the jockeys, remember?"

Black smoke ahead was the first indication that they were about to encounter flak. The second was a crashing jar from the tail section. Remembering the fears of the boy in his office the night before, Gallagher had to fight to keep his voice calm, "Peterson are you all right?"

"I'm fine, sir, but Chief Nolan sure is gonna be mad when he sees the hole them Krauts put in his airplane."

Gallagher exchanged a smile with Stovall both realizing how true the boy's statement was. Nolan took damage to the Lily as a personal affront.

"One minute to the bomb site, Skipper," called Reynolds.

"She's all yours, Logan," complied Gallagher, letting go of the steering column. "Make it good."

Komansky's voice was calm and matter of fact as he pointed out, "Fighters outside the flak bed, nine o'clock low."

Gallagher was turning to confirm the report when the window beside him exploded. His arms reflexively rose to protect his face. His whole body seemed to burn with pain as he desperately tried to twist his head around to check on Harvey. If they were both injured, he would have to order a bail out. Almost crying in frustration and fear, he lost the battle between his mind and his body. Closing his eyes, he allowed the blackness to take him into a world without pain.

 

Act IV

"Bombs away! Get us out of here, Skipper."

The bombardier's plea penetrated the blackness that had momentarily overtaken him when the window next to Gallagher had exploded. Reclaiming control of the aircraft, Stovall ignored the bees buzzing in his head and turned back the way they had come. Over the intercom he could hear the loud retort of the .50 caliber guns shooting at targets he couldn't see.

Since it was relatively certain that the Germans were unaware of the route they had flown in, it had already been decided to duplicate the same course going home. There shouldn't be any fighters or flak lying in wait for them. But, more importantly, it was the only precise means of returning to Archbury and a runway.

With the ship back on course, Harvey could finally turn his attention to the still figure next to him. Fearfully he noted the blood-splattered controls. Removing a glove, he laid trembling fingers on the carotid artery in his friend's neck. His eyes closed in thanksgiving as he felt the slow, gentle beats. Shifting carefully in his seat, he tried to examine the blood-soaked left side of his commanding officer. As he did so, Stovall gratefully noted that they were finally re-entering the fog. Almost immediately, the soft shuddering caused by the firing of the big guns ceased.

One hand on the control column Harvey pressed the mic to his throat. "Komansky get down here on the double."

Bates called, "Skipper, this is the left waist, number two engine's on fire."

Reluctantly returning to his seat, Harvey checked the instruments. From all indications it appeared as though the fuel line had ruptured. Realizing that they would be unable to climb higher than the thousand feed they were presently at he nonetheless feathered the hot motor.

"What's up, Major?" the curiosity on Komansky's face quickly turned to concern as he entered the damaged cockpit.

Even before Stovall could reply, Komansky had turned his attention to the injured Gallagher. Harvey fidgeted as he scrutinized the various instruments while waiting impatiently for the sergeant's report. "Sandy?"

"The colonel's got a number of minor cuts to the arm and scalp."

"That doesn't explain all the blood."

"No, sir, that's from a wound in his side."

"I'll call Logan up here," suggested Stovall, realizing that at a thousand feet, the air blowing in through the broken windshield could be dangerously cold. "You'll need help getting Joe out of that seat."

"I don't think that's such a good idea sir. There's a piece of metal still attached to the plane sticking in his side."

"Can you get it out?"

Komansky shook his head. "I don't even want to try, Major. It's too close to the Skipper's heart. If I move him I could kill him. I think we better wait for the doc to do it."

If we get that far, Stovall silently amended. The number two engine had already been feathered and now number four was running hot. They'd lost a lot of fuel before he'd shut down the fiery motor, maybe more than they could afford. Cutting back slightly on number four, Stovall ordered, "Sandy, get in the back and jettison everything this plane doesn't need to keep her in the air."

"Yes, sir." Komansky's hands shook slightly as he patted a bandage over Gallagher's left eye into place before reluctantly sliding through the hole into the belly of the plane.

"Co-pilot to navigator."

"Reynolds here, sir."

Wincing as pain stabbed through his head, Stovall stammered slightly, "Check your topography maps, Mike. Make sure there isn't anything above a thousand feet between us and Archbury."

"Yes, sir." Hesitantly, Reynolds asked, "Is everything all right, sir?"

Stovall knew how he wanted to answer, Colonel Gallagher is badly injured, we're running on two and a half engines in a plane that won't go higher than a thousand feet with zero visibility. And, to top it all, I've got the grandfather of all headaches. Other than that everything's fine. 

Instead, he bit his tongue and replied, "We've been in worse condition and made it. Just keep us on course, Mike, and we'll be home for dinner."

****

Stovall only had ten minutes of fuel left. He'd had to feather four about a half hour before. Everything that could be jettisoned had been, but they were still losing altitude fast. Even if anyone would've wanted to bail out into the nothingness that surrounded them, they were now far too low to make that an option.

His own vision blurred by the headache that had persisted throughout the flight, Harvey ordered, "Keep your eyes peeled, Sandy. If you see anything that even remotely looks like a runway, give a shout."

"You mean like that, Major?" Sandy smiled, pointing at the cement slab barely visible ahead.

Checking his location Stovall gently bank to come around. Even if communications weren't out, they didn't have the fuel to radio for landing instructions. Hoping there wasn't a crosswind to throw him off the runway, he prepared to land. "Co-pilot to crew brace for a possible crash landing. Sandy, you better get into position, too."

"I am, sir." The determination in the young sergeant's voice was clearly audible as he gently but firmly wrapped his arms around Gallagher.

Stovall shook his head, "It's too dangerous, Komansky, now get in back."

"No, sir, please don't try to make me, Major," pleaded Komansky. "If the colonel moves, he'll die."

Reluctantly Stovall desisted. He knew that if he tried to order the sergeant back again, Sandy would be forced to disobey him. And the last thing he wanted to do was bring the young man up on a charge of mutiny.

Taking a deep breath, Stovall cut back the engines and made one final check of the instruments. "Brace yourself, Sandy."

Though he was told later the landing was textbook, Stovall believed it was the worst he'd ever made. He was sure the hard impact of rubber and cement would force the metal up through Gallagher's heart -- killing his friend. By the time he taxied the Lily onto her hardstand, sweat had soaked his shirt and was running down the side of his face.

Warned by the red flare there was wounded, Doctor Kaiser was aboard almost before the wheels had stopped turning. Sandy quickly slipped into the cramped space behind the colonel's seat to make room.

The doctor had hardly started his examination before Harvey was asking, "How is he, Doc?"

"Alive -- barely, but until we get that metal out of him, there's no way I can get him out of this chair and hope to keep him that way."

"I'll see if Chief Nolan has any ideas," suggested Komansky, quickly exiting the cockpit.

Kaiser protested, "This man needs an operating room, not a mechanic."

Despite the doctor's doubts, Nolan performed a minor operation of his own and successfully extricated the strip of metal pinioning his commanding officer. In, to Stovall, what seemed an incredibly short period of time, the doctor and the mechanic had Gallagher free and in an ambulance on the way to the hospital.

A hand on his shoulder made Harvey jump.

"You better let me help you over to the hospital, Major," suggested Sandy.

"I've just got a headache, that's all."

Komansky shook his head. "No, sir, that's not all, and I sure don't want to face the Skipper if anything should happen to you."

Shaking his head in wonder, Harvey reluctantly agreed. Funny that they should both fear the same thing -- disappointing the man who was their commanding officer. Not because of the rank he held, but because of the feelings he inspired, respect, admiration -- love. "All right, Sandy, let's go"

 

EPILOG

The past two days were hazy, partially because of the slight concussion he'd suffered when the flak had blown out the windshield, but mostly from exhaustion. Harvey was honest enough -- at least with himself -- to admit that the mission had been unusually strenuous. Maybe Joe had been right in his misgivings. Maybe he should've let a younger man go. Yet he knew, not with his mind but with his heart, that if he hadn't flown, Colonel Joseph A. Gallagher would be dead. Regulations said that with the condition of the ship, the proper procedure was to order a bail out. Fear and self-preservation probably would've made another pilot follow the guidelines. But for Harvey, his greatest fear was of failing his friend. He had to bring Joe home alive. Not because he hoped to be considered heroic or because it was expected of him. He wanted to bring Joe home for his own selfish reasons. Several times already this war had come close to extinguishing the young life. The replacement commanders had been efficient and for the most part personable. But none had been Joseph Gallagher.

After Savage had been shot down, Harvey had not wanted nor tried to get close to his new commanding officer. He had felt Savage's loss too deeply. It was a feeling he never wanted to experience again. Yet somehow, without even trying, Gallagher had broken through his armor. The boy was sometimes rude and arrogant, but there was something about him that demanded loyalty. A vulnerability not generally associated with combat veterans. Without knowing when or why, Harvey had found himself feeling protective toward this contradictory soul. A protectiveness he had been unable to leave in the office, and had been partially the reason for his returning to the cockpit. He had liked Captain Gallagher -- his feelings for Colonel Gallagher were stronger, not so easily defined.

These feelings made his present task all the more distasteful. He was accustomed to breaking bad news. The war had provided ample opportunities to enhance this dubious talent. But it was never easy. However, he had been notified earlier this morning that General Britt would be in London for staff meetings the rest of the week -- leaving Stovall with the unsavory duty. Briefly, he wondered if the general's presence at SHAEF was really necessary, or if he was merely using it as a convenient excuse.

With no more reason to delay, Harvey knocked lightly on the door before reluctantly entering. Forcing a smile to his lips, he greeted, "Good morning, Joe, how are you feeling?" 

"Like a pin cushion," Gallagher snapped, wincing as a nurse inserted a needle into his good arm.

"Well," the nurse sweetly replied, "maybe next time we can use a softer target."

Blushing a bright red, Gallagher shook his head. "Forget I said anything."

"Consider it forgotten, sir…this time."

Stovall hid his smile behind a pretense of scratching the side of his mouth. It wasn't often that anyone got the last word with Colonel Joseph Gallagher. General Britt would be sorry he missed it.

"I can see that smile you're trying to hide, Harvey," growled Gallagher. "Now will you please tell me what happened. Nobody will talk to me about anything except my health.

Sobering quickly, Stovall pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. "Logan hit the villa dead on."

"But . . .?"

"But Hitler wasn't there. He never left Berlin."

His eyes closing from the mental pain rather than the physical, Gallagher sighed. "Damn, I risked the lives of nine men for nothing."

"Joe," snapped Stovall in exasperation, "have you ever noticed that when you count the lives you put at risk you never count your own?"

"The mission was my idea," Gallagher bruskly stated.

"That doesn't make your life worth less."

Seeming not to hear, Gallagher muttered, "I knew it was chancy, but would I listen to anyone? No, I--"

"What," interrupted Stovall, "if you hadn't taken the chance, and Hitler did go to the villa. How would you feel then?"

"Like I'd let the opportunity to end this war slip by me," Gallagher reluctantly admitted.

"Joe there is no winning in a war, only anguish and pain. Don't ever berate yourself because you tried to put an end to the suffering."

"Anyway, I bet we scared that bastard shitless," Gallagher tentatively offered.

Stovall smiled. "I hope so. At least then the mission would've had a modicum of success."

"I wonder if the underground could find out?"

"Now that's a detail I won't volunteer for," said Stovall.


End file.
